


This is a Love Song

by brooklinegirl



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklinegirl/pseuds/brooklinegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete wanted to know everything about Mikey Way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is a Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> Huge amounts of beta thank yous to both mrsronweasley, who read this over for me far too many times, and to kristiinthedark, who gave it the final read-through and let herself get heartily pimped into Pete/Mikey.
> 
> For pearl_o, who is having a hard week.

For Pete, it's the details. That's what everything comes down to in his life – it’s not the huge, life-changing events that stick with him and throw him off course, it's the little details that dig into his soul and hang on.

When he first saw Mikey at Warped, there were so many things about him that drew Pete closer, he didn't even know where to start. Mikey was all long limbs and knees and elbows and pretty much the opposite of Pete in every way. He didn’t have to throw himself around or talk a lot to get attention – all he did was stand there, but attention came to him.

It was the details about Mikey Way that fucking killed Pete. Pete had been talking to him for ten minutes when he wanted to know everything about Mikey – where he got his glasses, how he got his hair to do that, how he exuded that aura of just completely and wholeheartedly _not caring_ about what was going on around him. Mikey didn't just zone out a little – Pete could see him completely check out of a conversation with someone he wasn't interested in. It was like he wasn't there, like he went away some place in his head.

Pete wanted to know where he went. Pete wanted to know everything about Mikey Way.

By the end of their first conversation at the tour, Pete had his hand around Mikey's wrist and was dragging back to the tour buses. "Which one is yours?" he asked over his shoulder, and Mikey ducked his head in the general direction of one of the buses. When Pete tugged him along behind him, Mikey's sneakers dragged a little on the hot asphalt of the parking lot, but he moved his hand so his fingers curled around Pete's wrist.

They were in it together from the very start.

They took over the lounge area on the My Chem bus and Mikey played Pete music he'd never really listened to before, and hearing it with Mikey made him love it. It seemed new and different and perfect and it made his heart swell. Mikey pressed his earbuds into Pete's ears and controlled the iPod, staring at Pete from the other end of the couch, legs curled up under him awkwardly.

It should have been weird and stressful to have someone stare at him while he listened, but it was Mikey Way staring at him and playing him the best music Pete had ever heard in his life, so instead it was awesome. The music wasn't anything he would have probably picked up himself, but Mikey would, like, gauge his reaction to a song, and then intently run his thumb around and around the scroll wheel and each time, it landed on the next perfect thing.

Pete's face hurt from smiling. Mikey's eyes flickered over Pete's face continually from the foot of the couch, and Pete scooted forward, nudging Mikey's legs until he stretched out and let Pete drape himself half on top of him. "Mikey," he said, settling his head on Mikey's chest, and pulling one earbud out, reaching up to push it gently into Mikey's ear. "This is awesome."

Mikey shifted under him, like he couldn't get comfortable, but then, Pete was learning that Mikey never looked particularly comfortable. Mikey settled back a little, then pushed the earbud further into his ear and leaned his head against Pete's. The music slid through the space in between them and Pete pushed his hand up under Mikey's t-shirt. His fingers were cold in the air-conditioning of the bus, but Mikey didn't flinch. He just curled up closer to Pete and moved his fingers on the iPod to turn the music up a tiny bit.

It was funny – when his band came in a little later, Mikey didn't jump up or even move. Pete pulled his fingers out from under Mikey's shirt, but he didn't lift his head off his chest – it would have pulled the earbuds out – and Mikey didn't seem to mind. They got a really weird look from Toro, and Frank pursed his lips, staring first at them, and then craning his neck to look behind him as Mikey's brother climbed into the bus. Gerard didn't even seem to notice them – he was focused on the coffee maker on the counter, and went directly for it, setting to work scooping enough coffee for a full pot and singing to himself a little bit. Frank raised an eyebrow at Mikey, right over Pete's head, but Mikey didn't move, other than his fingers keeping beat to the music against the small of Pete's back. Pete closed his eyes against Mikey's chest, and listened to his heart beat. It sounded like it was in time to the music.

***

Pete would come to watch My Chem play on the other stage, even when he ended up being late for his own sound check. Patrick was looking at him funny lately, and Pete _felt_ funny, under his skin. Fall Out Boy played some great sets, but Pete thought they were even better the times Mikey came to watch them. Mikey was there almost every time. He learned the bass line to "Sugar," even, which made Pete stupidly fucking happy.

The first time Pete pulled his sweaty guitar strap up over his head and jogged to the side of the stage, pressing his own bass into Mikey's hands so he could take off into audience with his microphone and have some fun, he felt more alive than he had in – he didn't even know, maybe more than he _ever_ had. He could feel Mikey's eyes on his _skin_ , even when he turned back to the stage and saw Mikey with his head ducked down, watching his own fingers on the frets and pretending that the screaming crowds weren't even there.

Pete wasn't sure what was going to happen when Gerard noticed what was going on, finally. Pete knew Gerard and Mikey were way close, and he respected that, but Gerard was a weird dude, and Pete wasn't sure how he'd take it. It seemed okay, though, because Gerard was going through Warped in what seemed like a world of his own, focused and mellow and lost in his own head. He was endlessly sketching at the table in the lounge on the bus, drinking cup after cup of coffee and never even noticing, Pete thought, when Mikey would tug Pete through the lounge and down into the narrow bunk area, to pull Pete in to his own bunk and play him a song.

He asked Mikey about it, once, when they were curled together in the dark, and the edge of Mikey's glasses was digging into Pete's temple a little bit. "Do you think your brother is gonna think it's weird, you and me, when he notices?"

Mikey's fingers were tracing over the tendons on the inside of Pete's wrist. "He notices," Mikey said softly.

Pete tilted his head, trying to get the angle to see Mikey's face in the dim of the bunk. "But he never pays attention," he said, surprised. Gerard would put a hand on Mikey's head, or drop a kiss on his cheek, as he went by, but he never seemed to wonder who the dude was that was pressed up all in his brother's business.

"No," Mikey said, his breath warm against Pete's forehead. "He totally does," and that was as far as that went, but for weeks afterwards, all Pete could think about was if they had a conversation about them, and what Gerard thought was happening, what Pete was getting blamed for when really, this was it. He and Mikey curled up in the dark with the music all around them.

***

Pete called them the Sweet Little Dudes, him and Mikey, and he called them a gang. A gang of two, us against them, us against the _world_. They had the music and they had each other and they had long sleepless nights curled up together and that was enough, until suddenly it wasn't, which was kind of the way it always seemed to happen with Pete.

It was two in the morning and Gerard had just shut his sketchbook with a sigh and shuffled off to bed, brushing his hand over Mikey's hair as he went. Mikey frowned, and pushed his hair back into place, and Pete, who wasn't even near him, was just sitting at the other end of the couch with his bare toes tucked under Mikey's thigh for warmth, got this hot, hot feeling in his belly, in his face, in his skin, all _over_. Like he was getting sick, like it was a fever, and he didn't even know what to do with himself.

It was everything coming together all at once. It was that, yes, okay, Mikey looked really good there on the couch, relaxed and easy. It was that they were in a gang together, and that Mikey _got_ him so well. It was that Gerard could brush against Mikey like that so sweet and easy. It was this whole summer just getting to Pete and eating him up inside.

His hands were a little numb and he felt like a crazy person, couldn’t stop staring at Mikey.

"What," Mikey said, pulling off his glasses and carefully smoothing his fingers along the hair that bracketed his face. "What are you –"

"Oh," Pete said softly, and pushed himself up and forward on the couch. "Oh, fuck _you_ , Mikeyway," he said against Mikey's lips. He kissed him, soft and sweet as he knew how, and Mikey made a small sound against Pete's lips, and kissed him back.

"Right," said Pete, and he was shocked, somewhere inside himself, sort of stupid with the shock that there had been this line, and he had crossed it, and now here they were. " _Right_ ," he said again, because Mikey's hands had moved up his back, pushing his hoodie and t-shirt up until they were tracing against his back. He could feel Mikey's fingers tracing the raised lines of his tattoo. But it was fine, it was good, Pete could take it. Pete liked Mikey's hands on his skin. Mikey was still kissing him.

Then Mikey tilted his head, and bit Pete's lip purposefully, and twisted on the couch with a quick and easy move that shouldn’t have been possible in someone so long-limbed and generally awkward. And suddenly Pete was pressed down into the couch, with Mikey hovering up over him and kissing the breath out of him, kissing the heart out of him. Pete wasn't this gay. He _wasn't_. He was pretty sure. He moved his numb hands up to Mikey's shoulders, to push him back, but instead his fingers were sinking into the fabric of Mikey's hoodie and dragging him closer, dragging him down, wanting more. Wanting this. Wanting Mikey.

That was when Frank Iero walked in, and they hadn't even heard the bus door hiss open. Pete's heart was beating hard enough now that he felt like could have missed the end of the world. He only knew that Mikey pulled back, and then he registered a long, low whistle.

"Mikey fuckin Way," Frank said, one eyebrow raised, "You're dirty."

"I'm right here, you know," Pete said, disgruntled, where he was pinned under Mikey's bony hips.

"I know you are, Pete." Frank sighed, and when Pete pushed himself up on his elbows, Frank was running one hand through his hair and looking back towards the bunk area where Gerard was sleeping. "Mikey," Frank said, carefully, not quite looking at him.

Mikey didn't respond, and honestly probably didn't even move, but something about how the muscles in his face shifted as he looked up at Frank – not even moving his hips away from Pete, where he was half-hard against Pete's thigh – made him look weirdly dangerous.

"Whatever," Frank finally sighed. "I'm – let's talk, yeah?" he said. "Tomorrow," and his voice was firm. "Let's talk."

"Yeah." Mikey nodded, and Frank headed back into the bunk area. Mikey looked down at Pete, who was, truth be told, freaking out a little bit. "I'm sorry," he said, and pressed a kiss to the corner of Pete's mouth.

How did a cockeyed kiss make Pete so crazy for this dude? He didn't understand it. "What was that?" Pete shifted on the couch. "Mikey, why does he even care?"

Mikey shrugged a little, and moved to let him up. "Gerard," he said. "He worries about him, some."

"Oh," Pete said. "That makes sense." Which it did, because who didn't know about Gerard and what had happened since the last Warped? But maybe it would have been better if Pete hadn't pointed that out. But hey, it wasn't like Mikey didn't know that Gerard could be a little worrying. Pete was a little worrying himself, sometimes. Most times. Patrick was the one that worried about him. A _lot_ of people worried about Gerard.

Mikey just nodded. They sat next to each other on the couch, awkward with each other for the first time all summer. Well. Pete felt awkward, and Mikey just looked the way Mikey always did, knees bent inwards, glasses smudged, waiting.

"I don't think I'm gay," Pete said without really meaning to. He'd been going to say something about Mikey's brother.

Mikey nodded again, and didn't even raise an eyebrow, even though his tongue had been in Pete's mouth up until about three minutes ago. "At least, I'm – I've never been, not really," Pete explained. "I like kissing. I like _people_. " He paused. "I like _you_." None of that was hard to say at all. That kind of made him feel better.

Mikey moved his knees a tiny bit closer together, so they touched each other. He stared down at them, like he was fascinated. "Okay," he said, and his voice came out easy, like it wasn't any big thing.

Something in Pete's chest eased a little bit. This was why he loved Mikey. This was why they were a gang. He swung himself up and over Mikey's legs, getting into his lap, kissing him again, sweet and long. "Pete," Mikey said against his lips, and Pete sort of froze, waiting.

But all Mikey said then was, "Pete," again, breathing it out hot against his lips, and it was the most natural thing in the world to want to make out with Mikey Way. Pete was sure of it.

***

Pete stood to the side of the stage and watched Mikey play. Mikey rolled his shoulders under the strap of his base and glanced over at him. Their fans were _wild_ out there, Gerard up on stage ramping them up further and further, and Gerard himself was _eating it up_ , feeding off of the energy of the crowd in the best possible way. Pete could see that on his face – it was glee behind the glare and the sweat and the swears. Mikey looked incredible up there, with his boys and his bass and his stupid, amazing, impassive face. Everyone on the stage was a whirl: Frank spinning around with his guitar, uncontrollable and amazing, Toro rocking the fuck out to the beats Bob was pounding out skillfully on his drums, and Mikey just _steady_ , in it and aware but resolutely playing the chords, his legs braced, his fingers sure, his head down. Focused. _Present_.

They finished the set and the roar of the crowd followed them offstage after the second encore. Pete pulled the base out of Mikey's sweaty hands, slung it over his own shoulder. "That was awesome," he said, grinning wide. "You were _awesome_."

Mikey shook his head, shrugged, drank some water out of the bottle Pete pressed into his hand. "You were watching us the whole set?" he asked, as Pete snagged a passing guitar tech and passed off Mikey's bass.

Pete grinned at Mikey, tilting his head to the side. "I was watching _you_."

Mikey took another drink of water, then moved forward, pushing Pete back into the shadows behind a stack of crates. Pete could still hear the dulled noise of the crowd as Mikey kissed him, open-mouthed and dirty. Pete gasped into his mouth, and kissed him back after a handful of breathless seconds. When Mikey pulled away, Pete had his fingers through Mikey's belt loops and Mikey's mouth was wet and red.

***

Pete spent that night lying next to Mikey in his bunk, whispering to him in the dark. Mikey listened to him, _got_ him, and fucking understood every dark and delicate thing Pete handed over. Pete didn't know what day it was. Pete didn’t actually know what month it was. All he knew was summer; all he knew was Mikey. He could probably turn that into a song lyric if Patrick would let him.

Mikey understood things Pete never really tried to explain to anyone else before. The panic, and the fear. The challenge of trying to take the right number of the right pills at the right time to maintain the brain chemistry that everyone else seemed to have with zero effort. How it never seemed to work the way it should, and how easy it was to forget to get the prescription filled, forget to take them on time, when they didn't seem to ever do as much good to make the effort you had to put into it seem worth it.

Pete had half-given up on taking what he was supposed to – it was too hard to stay on a schedule at Warped, and he felt better, he said softly, looking at Mikey in the dim of the bunk. He felt good. He didn't need them as much, maybe. He was quiet for a minute, trying to frame the words in his mind. "It never works out the way you think," he said finally. He was talking about the drugs, and how they were supposed to make you feel normal when instead, they made you feel like you weren't even you, at all.

He couldn't see Mikey's eyes in the darkness, but he felt it when Mikey nodded against the pillow. "It's hard to figure," he said, "when you don't really have a clue about what normal feels like."

And that was it, wasn't it? "No baseline," Pete said, his hand running over Mikey's fingers where they were laid out on Mikey's stomach. Strumming them, like the strings on his bass.

"Nothing to compare it to that makes any sense, so how do you even know what you're aiming for?" Mikey shrugged like it didn't matter, and curled up closer to Pete, shifted down a little in the bunk. He was all long legs and skinny arms, and his breath was warm through Pete's t-shirt. He whispered words against Pete's belly, and Pete lay there, staring at the too-close ceiling of the bunk, wishing he could get them tattooed on him right now, tonight, before he could remember they'd be a bad idea.

***

They had a two-day stop at one of the venues somewhere mid-west, and Mikey stayed up way too late with Pete the second night, drinking coffee and playing Halo on My Chem's bus (Mikey was much, much better at the game than him, and Pete was impressed). The caffeine was thrumming through Pete's veins until he felt like he was vibrating from the inside out and it was pretty late when they moved from sitting next to each other, giggling, to making out on the couch like teenagers.

"Shh," Mikey said, pressing down against Pete hard when Pete moaned. "Shh, my brother."

"Mikey," Pete said tightly. "Why do you have to talk about your brother when you're licking me - _god_ \- " Because Mikey's tongue was tracing its way down the tendon on the side of Pete's neck, then Mikey was biting down, kind of hard, where Pete's neck met his shoulder. And okay, maybe Pete knew he was only above-the-waist gay, but his dick didn't care at all, was thrumming in his too-tight jeans.

"You're loud." Mikey pulled back and looked down at him. Mikey's thigh was between Pete's legs, and Pete wasn't moving his hard dick up against it, not yet, but it was a _really fucking close thing_. He loved making out with Mikey more than he'd ever loved anything. He didn't even know what the fucking rules were any more. His brain wasn't working right. He couldn't feel his hands.

"Yes. I'm loud. Hi, Mikeyway, I’m Pete Wentz, have we met?" he said finally, still not moving his hips.

"Stop talking," Mikey said, earnestly, and bit Pete's lower lip. Pete's hips jerked up without his say-so, and they both groaned, way too loud.

Pete couldn't catch his breath. "Jesus," he said. "Mikey, fucking, just – please."

Mikey had his hot hands up under Pete's hoodie, and why was something as simple as Mikey's hands against the skin of his belly turning Pete on so fucking hard? Why did this feel like _something_ , feel like _everything_ , feel like –

"Pete," Mikey was saying. Had been saying. Had been maybe saying a few times, by the time Pete managed to respond, "What?" Mikey's thigh was moving a little now between Pete's legs, and Pete couldn't _breathe_ , he was so turned on.

"Pete." Mikey didn't sound in control. His voice was breathless and excited. "Can we – can we go to your bus? Can we just –"

Pete couldn't focus. "Yeah, yes, let's – no, god, the guys are all – no, fuck." He wasn't this – he couldn't – Christ, if Mikey didn't take his hands off of him right this second, Pete would be – "Fuck. Can we just –" He twisted up against Mikey on the couch, and Mikey pinned him down harder, and fuck, that was Mikey's cock right there up against Pete's, just so fucking _perfect_ , and Pete should be worried about that, but he fucking _wasn't_.

"Fuck." Mikey was pushing himself shakily back, off of Pete, and Pete felt like he was going to fall into a million pieces without Mikey pressing against him. "Everyone is just - _Gee_ is right _there_ and - Bob will kill me, if he walks in on us," Mikey was whispering.

"And Frank will just _tell_ everyone," Pete whispered. "Again." And by now they were both shaking so hard with giggles that it felt like the whole damn bus was rocking with it. "Can you just be quiet?" Pete whispered, and moved his hand a little, so his fingers just barely curled into the waist of Mikey's jeans. "Do you think?"

Mikey breathed shallowly through his mouth for a couple of seconds, his eyes fluttering closed. "No," he said finally, his voice tight. "I don't think I can. I just - come here." Pete let himself be tugged up from the narrow couch. He was so hard he could barely even _walk_. Mikey was dragging him down the stairs and out the door into the humid night air.

"This is so stupid," Pete muttered, stumbling along beside Mikey. He felt drunk. He wished they _were_ drunk. He pressed himself against Mikey's side.

"I know, but." Mikey's expression was just this same as always, his tone was flat, but his grip on Pete's hand was tight. It was late, even for Warped, but the night never ended at Warped, and nighttime didn't mean quiet. There was the distant static of a party still going on across the parking lot, and all the streetlights were still on, lining the random avenues of the buses and creating pockets of too much light.

It took them forever to get to the darkness that lined the parking lots, the tents that had been hot and crowded all day abandoned now and cloaked in shadow. Warped seemed like its own temporary city, where nighttime meant safety, meant they were alone, in their own world where nothing would translate to the paparazzi, the fans, the world outside. Pete felt giddy with it. When Mikey pulled up to a sharp stop outside what Pete was pretty sure was Reggie's merch tent, Pete broke down in nervous giggles.

"What?" Mikey asked, curious.

"Mikeyway," Pete leaned up to breath against his ear, "You take a dude to the nicest places." He bit Mikey's earlobe, and Mikey's hands were suddenly tight on his wrists.

"Pete, please just fucking let me - _god_." Mikey stopped, and pulled himself away from Pete. Pete felt cold, suddenly, in the humid night air, and alone. It felt like it was the first time in a month Mikey didn't have his hands on him _somewhere_. "Fuck." Mikey was leaning his forehead against one of the struts holding the merch tent up. He was rocking his forehead across the metal, like it was soothing or something. "Pete," he said again, finally. "You're okay with this? You're okay with - you and me?"

Pete was just – standing there, just _standing_ there, so fucking alone in the dark. "I – fucking love you, Mikey."

Mikey turned his forehead against the strut, so he could give Pete this hot look, and then he was moving, and his hands were on Pete's face, weirdly cool against Pete's skin. Pete pushed Mikey's glasses up onto his head, completely screwing up whatever symmetry he had going on with his hair, and Mikey didn't even blink, he just said, "Come here."

Pete moved forward, and Mikey kissed him so gently, Pete could feel it in his _toes_. "Hi," he said, breathlessly, when Mikey finally let him go. "Hi. I fucking love you."

"Me, too." Mikey's breath was hot against Pete's lips, and when he sank to his knees, pushing Pete back, there was a strut conveniently behind Pete. Pete just leaned back against it. Mikey held onto Pete's hips, and his thumbs traced a delicate pattern on his skin the entire time. Pete had his fingers tangled in Mikey's hair and against his glasses, and he was looking up at the stars as Mikey took him into his mouth. It felt like a metaphor; it felt like a line in a song. Pete's knees were shaking hard and he made too much noise as he moved into Mikey's mouth, against his tongue, gasping and clenching Mikey's hair and saying his name just as he came.

***

Summer was cloying. Summer was lost times. Summer was Tinkerbell, and Pete was clapping as hard as he could to keep her alive. Summer was Mikey with his sweat-slick guitar in his hands, playing like it was no big deal, like it was everything in the world, all at once. Summer was like nothing Pete had ever known before and thought he never would again, and he didn’t want to let go. His hands hurt all the time from holding on too tight.

****

Pete didn’t sleep if he didn't take pills, and he didn't take pills when he was with Mikey. Mikey's hands against his skin kept him calm, and Pete didn't need sleep. It was August – it had been August for a while, Pete thought, maybe – and Mikey came crawling into Pete's bunk long after the other guys were passed out. Pete was awake. Pete was pretty much always awake.

"Oh," Mikey said, his pale face framed by the curtain of Pete's bunk. "Hi." He slid in, letting Pete's arm wrap around him, shoving his bony hip into Pete's thigh, breathing beery breath against Pete's cheek. "I'm a little drunk," he said after a while, and Pete laughed quietly.

"A lot," he said.

Mikey shoved against his side. " _You_ don't know," he said defiantly, and Pete's heart flipped over in his chest. Drunk Mikey was belligerent, and adorable.

"What were you drinking?" he asked, and Mikey angled his head to kiss him, long and wet.

Pete licked his wet lips when Mikey released him. "Beer," he said, quietly, surely, and Mikey said, "Yes, that," against his chest.

"A little – rum?" Pete asked, and Mikey nodded, his stubble scraping a little.

"Some," he said, and the _s_ was a little slurred.

"And," Pete ducked his head down to kiss Mikey again, and Mikey tilted his head up, pressing his tongue into Pete's mouth. "Jello shots," Pete said finally.

Mikey giggled in agreement.

" _Lime_ Jello shots," Pete said, and Mikey gazed up at him in the dimness of the bunk like he was magic.

"Totally," he said.

Pete grinned down into his face. Mikey's breath smelled like green. Pete's chest hurt. He really hoped Mikey wasn't going to throw up.

"Do you want some water?" Pete asked.

Mikey shook his head stubbornly. "Yes. I mean. No." He peered up at Pete, and took his glasses off, fitting them carefully onto Pete's face, then leaning his head back to study the effect. "I'm a very competent drunk," he said finally.

"I totally believe you," Pete said solemnly.

"You should." Mikey settled down against his chest. Pete wrapped his arm tighter around Mikey's shoulder, holding on, listening to his slow and steady breaths.

"Mikeyway." The ceiling was close and blurry through the lenses of Mikey's glasses, but Pete felt like the whole universe was expanding inside his chest. Mikey was out, his weight that solid, heavy thing when someone had completely lost their hold on consciousness. "How did I just meet you now?" Pete's chest felt tight. He wanted to just stop time, freeze everything here, right now, this minute, even. "You get me," he whispered in Mikey's ear. He wondered, sometimes, if he'd found his person. If Mikey in his arms right now was the exact person he'd been waiting for.

Mikey moaned a little in his sleep, and pressed closer to Pete, his knee digging sharply into Pete's thigh.

"What if you're the way I'm supposed to go?" Pete whispered against Mikey's hair, which smelled like rum, and pot. What if. Jesus Christ. Pete tugged Mikey's glasses off his own face, and tucked them on the shelf on the side of his bunk.

Mikey muttered something under his breath, and his hand flailed up in his sleep, reaching out, and grabbing Pete's wrist, dragging it down to Mikey's chest. Mikey curled up around Pete's hand, and Pete honestly, truly, couldn't breathe for a moment.

"I love you," Pete breathed, so soft he could barely hear it himself. "You asshole," he added, not sure if that last part was directed at Mikey or at himself.

Mikey murmured quietly in his drunken sleep.

***

The early sun was stupidly bright through the slats of the blinds in the lounge of the bus. Mikey was already gone from Pete's bunk when Pete woke up. Pete couldn't ever remember being the second person to wake up. He thought Mikey might have taken off, but when he stumbled out, Mikey's glasses clutched in his hand, Mikey was sitting cross-legged on the couch in his dirty jeans, his arms wrapped around himself, watching the sun rise through a slit in the blinds.

"Morning," Pete said stupidly.

Mikey looked about fourteen years old without his glasses on. "I – hi," he said, blinking. "I couldn’t find my glasses."

"You were pretty drunk." Pete held out the glasses.

Mikey took the glasses and slid them on. "I didn't puke, though." He looked at Pete, like he was waiting for confirmation, and Pete nodded.

"You didn't puke."

Mikey nodded back and curled in on himself. "I think I'd feel better if I had." He shut his eyes. "I don't want to go back to the bus like this," he said.

Pete nodded, to no audience. "Right," he said. "It's – fine. You want the bunk?"

Mikey started to shake his head, then stopped. "No," he said, holding himself carefully. "I think I should stay here. Can I stay here?"

"Yeah." Pete looked down at him. "Yeah, no problem."

***

At around seven, Pete texted Gerard from Mikey's phone. _mikey on FOB bus. be back l8r_

Mikey's phone rang out the theme from _Titanic_ ten seconds later. Pete flipped it open. _Take care of him_ was all it said. Pete swallowed, and texted back, _will do_ and shut the phone off.

***

Mikey actually looked worse when he woke up the second time, but it was getting late, and Pete knew My Chem had sound check on the early side. Mikey let Pete pull him up off the couch, and he drank the water Pete pressed into his hand, and let Pete walk him back to his bus like it was the end of some sort of date. Frank was coming out the door of the bus right as they got there, and Mikey wasn't exactly leaning on Pete, but Pete did sort of have his hand on Mikey's arm to make sure his upright status wasn't going to change without notice.

Frank stopped when he saw Mikey, and rolled his eyes. "Really?" he said, not quite mean, but a little bit weary. "Aw, Mikey."

Mikey shifted from foot to foot, his eyes squinted almost entirely closed against the sunlight. "I know," he said, and he sounded fucking miserable. "Just."

"C'mere." Frank pulled Mikey away from Pete and put his arm around Mikey's shoulders, tugging him close. "Thanks, man," he said over his shoulder to Pete, as he pulled Mikey up the stairs into the bus.

"No problem," Pete said, but he was talking to the closed door of the bus. He stood there for a handful of seconds in the too-hot sunlight, thinking about the sour taste of lime Jello on Mikey's lips before turning around and heading back to his own bus. He'd grab Patrick, and they'd work on some lyrics together, maybe. It would be awesome.

***

Later, his phone buzzed insistently from where he'd left it in his bunk on purpose. It was a text from Mikey. _on stage in 15. might die_

It was from an hour or so ago. Pete had missed their set. He texted back: _u puke?_

His phone buzzed ten seconds later. _ys. twice :(_

 _jello shots from hell_ , Pete offered, and thought about turning his phone off, leaving it at that. But – it was August already. They had two more venue dates to go. It felt like the end of summer had when Pete was in high school, the downhill slide away from easy afternoons and ice cream trucks and afternoon naps into something much more difficult and dangerous.

Mikey texted back. _ugh. come see me_

Pete looked around, like he was waiting for a call from a referee or something. Someone to point him in the right direction. But the place was empty, and the air conditioner made the air cold enough to feel like it was settling into Pete's lungs, like he was getting pneumonia or consumption or some other sort of tragic wasting disease.

He made his way out into a wall of heat that felt good against his chilled skin. It was dusk and clouds were rolling in, a summer storm. When he got to the My Chem bus, Mikey was leaning against the outside of it, waiting for him.

Pete moved closer without even meaning to. Mikey was wearing huge girls' sunglasses, which Pete was pretty sure he'd last seen on Gerard. He could picture Gerard pushing them onto Mikey's face, gently, a gesture of forgiveness for his hungover brother. Or, hell, Pete didn't know, maybe Mikey didn't need forgiveness. Maybe Gerard was sober long enough to not care about his brother getting wasted and not coming home.

Pete thought about Frank's face that morning. Maybe Pete was wrong.

"You look like crap," Mikey said from behind the stupid sunglasses.

Pete blinked at him, and grinned. " _I_ look like crap? You look like you've been run over." The thing was, Mikey sort of _did_ , all disheveled and pale and sweaty and, like, _flat_ against the side of the bus.

"Roadkill," Mikey agreed with a grimace. "That's about right. C'mere." He reached for Pete's hand, and tugged him around to where the bus was backed up against the grass on the edge of the lot. Mikey folded himself down onto the grass with a sigh, not letting go of Pete's hand, so Pete stumbled down next to him.

"How was your set?" Pete asked, feeling stupid, tongue-tied.

"Fine." Mikey's eyebrows pulled down behind the sunglasses. "I think." He took off the sunglasses, finally, and tugged his real glasses out of the neck of his t-shirt. He pushed them on and looked at Pete and let himself fall back against the grass. "I feel like death," he said unhappily.

"It shows," Pete leaned back on his hands. The acts were still playing down on the stages, so the rain probably wouldn't be too bad. They postponed things when there were odds of, like, lightning or torrential downpours.

Mikey folded his hands over his chest, tilting his head back to the sky, like he was trying to catch rays from the darkening sky. "Long summer," he said softly, his eyes on the clouds.

"You think?" Pete blinked up at the sky, trying to see what Mikey was seeing.

"Yeah," Mikey said, then, "No, I just –" He stopped again. "It's going to rain," he said finally.

Pete didn't feel the first drop until about ten seconds later.

"Come here," Mikey said, his long fingers looped around Pete's wrist. He tugged Pete down next to him, Pete's head on Mikey's shoulder. The clouds were dusky grey up above, and the drops were coming faster.

"It's raining," Pete said, tilting his head to look up at Mikey.

"I know." Mikey's glasses had raindrops on them. He sounded happy. "Come here," he said again, his hand against the side of Pete's face.

Pete tilted his head up and Mikey pressed his mouth against Pete's, softly.

"I – okay." Pete took a breath when Mikey let him go. This felt dangerous, like, more dangerous than blowjobs in the merch tent and sleeping in each other's bunks. It was dark now, and the rain was coming down steady. They were in full view of at least three bus windows. Mikey rolled up onto his elbow, pushing Pete over onto his back on the wet ground, and kissed him again. "Fuck. Mikey." Pete's hands were up against the back of Mikey's damp t-shirt, and Mikey's thigh was between Pete's legs. " _Mikey_."

"Shut up." Mikey pressed Pete back again, and pressed his tongue into his mouth. Pete's hands were freezing cold, and Mikey shuddered a little when Pete pushed them up under his shirt, pressed them against the warm wet skin of Mikey's back. Mikey kept him there a long time, kissing him in the rain until Pete was breathless and lost in it and didn't care about anything at all.

***

Summer was gone before they were ready, and it went with a whimper, and a party, and too much liquor, and a late, late night. The party was _epic_ , and traveling, the vortex of it meandering from bus to bus. Everyone hanging on too tight and all the faces full of frenzy and stress and that too-tired giddiness that you only ever got from summertime touring. They were somewhere in the Midwest, maybe, or possibly it was more east. Pete couldn't remember, and that wasn’t actually the part that mattered. The point was the end of the summer was here, even though it felt like it was barely August and it was hotter now than it had been in a month. It didn't make any sense, it didn't _feel_ like the end, and Pete thought maybe he saw that reflected in the faces of the others at the parties. It wasn’t just him.

He stayed out late, and made the rounds of his favorite bands, and did maybe a couple of shots with Alkaline Trio, and let a merch girl kiss him goodbye over by the keg, much to the delight of the onlookers.

Whenever he took a minute to search, Mikey would be there, doing his own thing, but in Pete's sight, and that just made the whole thing seem easier, a little bit. Mikey stuck close, without seeming like it was any sort of effort. At the end of the night - when it was getting late - Pete walked over to lean against his shoulder and take his hand, holding it really tight. Mikey gave Pete's hand four quick squeezes in a row, like a message, like Morse code, and Pete leaned harder against his shoulder, his own answer back.

Mikey breathed out, heavy, and when Pete looked up at him, Mikey was looking a little crazy in the face. Like Pete felt on the inside. Like Pete himself maybe looked on the outside. Mikey's fingers curled around Pete's, damp and tight. He took another breath, but he didn't say anything, just looked at Pete, all wound up and silent.

Pete's heart just – he couldn't fucking take this at all. He couldn't, and he just – fuck it all, fuck all of it. He dragged Mikey through the drunken crowd lit only by the arc-sodium lights of the lamps lining the parking lot. Mikey stumbled along behind him, his hand warm and willing in Pete's.

They ended up on Pete's bus, in Pete's bunk, the curtain pulled shut behind them. Mikey didn't say a word, just kissed Pete, urgently, and rocked against him in the dark. Pete thumbed open the button on Mikey's jeans, sliding the zipper down, and wrapped his hand around Mikey's dick, kissing him hard and jerking him off and whispering desperately into his ear the entire time. He wasn't even sure they were alone in the bus; he didn't care. He needed this so badly, and Mikey was with him every inch of the way, clinging to Pete so tightly, and saying, "Yes. Yes. Yes," to everything Pete poured out.

Mikey gasped loudly when he came, arching up against Pete's hand and shoving his arm over his face, whimpering like he was crying, like he was dying. Pete pulled Mikey's arm away roughly, afterwards – he wanted to see, he wanted to _see_ \- and Mikey's face looked like heartbreak.

"Fuck you," Mikey said weakly, pulling away from Pete's hold on his arm. "Oh, fuck you, Pete." He rubbed his arm roughly over his face, all undone there on Pete's bunk, in Pete's arms, and oh fucking hell, who were they, here? Who would they be after this?

Pete moved, then, climbing on top of Mikey, and Mikey let him, wrapping his arms around him tight, at first, then just running his fingers over Pete's skin over and over. They kissed each other in the quiet dark of the bunk, for a long, long time.

***

And at the end of everything Pete knew about that summer, he was dizzy and lost and everyone was saying goodbye. Pete's face hurt from smiling, and he was so totally fine, he was one hundred percent. The buses were taking off one by one, going in separate directions for the first time in months. Half the people Pete had known and loved all summer long were already gone. Everyone was moving on to the next tour on their schedules, looking ahead to their dates and times and places, leaving Warped behind, like it hadn't really mattered at all, like it was just a blip on the never-ending radar of touring. Like this whole summer wasn't the real thing that Pete was pretty sure it had been.

He felt like crying. He felt fucking crazy. It was still too hot out; it was still summer.

"Hey," he heard, and there was a hand on his arm, and there was Mikey. They'd said goodbye last night, but Mikey was still here. Still real.

Pete lifted his chin, and gave Mikey a tough grin. "Hey," he said, and it came out too loud.

"Pete," Mikey said, so quiet Pete barely heard him, and then he pulled Pete into a hug, fitting Pete against his body like he belonged there.

"Oh," Pete said, not trusting himself to hold on.

"I'll see you in New York," Mikey said, pushing him away a little, so Pete could see his eyes. Mikey's glasses were still smudged, but his eyes were happy. "Call me, when you guys get there."

"Will do," Pete said, like an asshole. He really fucking wanted to believe that they'd see each other again and it would be just the same and they'd pick up right where they'd left off. He took a breath. "I fucking love you, Mikeyway."

Mikey gave him a brilliant grin, and ducked his head, color high in his cheeks. "Call me," he said, "When you're in the city."

"Yeah," Pete said. Fall in the city wasn't anything the same as summertime. The colors were grey and dim and Pete felt that on the edge of his vision now, like things were fading away already.

He watched as Mikey walked away backwards a few steps before swinging around and loping awkwardly off towards where Gerard was waiting for him, smoking there in the late August heat with his hood up. "Will do," he said quietly to himself, and turned around sharply, heading away.

the end


End file.
